


A Fundinson and His Bride

by QueenUndertheBloodyMountain



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, Orcs beware, She will kill you and then kick you afterwards for good measure, This dwarf doesn't get enough love, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenUndertheBloodyMountain/pseuds/QueenUndertheBloodyMountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin Fundinson married a dwarrowdam with a lot of fire, and apparently an angry streak when someone hurts her beloved husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fundinson and His Bride

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize it, it's Tolkien's. Un-beta'd.

You were dozing comfortably in your sleep when small, feather-like kisses being pressed to your shoulders began to wake you. A gentle smile spread across your lips as the assailant continued his tender onslaught.

It had been five years since the reclamation of Erebor. You had traveled one hard and long year to the Lonely Mountain—where rumors of the deaths of Thorin and his heirs had terrified you and your traveling companions for months—as well as many more months of turmoil and hard work to establish a place amongst the dwarves of Erebor. In such time, you had frequently run into a warrior from the King’s company himself, one of the dwarrow that helped Thorin II Oakenshield reclaim the mountain that was stolen, at the tavern you worked at. As one of the bar maids, you were in charge of providing him ale and making sure he didn’t run out, always noticing his small glances and rare smiles he would send your way. For almost a year his stares continued, only the King himself coming in had pushed the tattooed dwarf into finally approaching you and stammering out a rough invitation for dinner. And now, you were his wife.

“You, Dwalin, are buttering me up for something with those sweet kisses of yours,” you whispered, trying hard not to open your eyes and ruin the magic of such a wonderful morning.

“I have to patrol with Thorin today, Love,” he murmured into your skin, peppering your neck with his small kisses now, “A band of orcs has been rumored to be roaming along the Eastern side of the mountain.”

You rolled over in his arms and huffed, a pout forming on your lips, “I knew there was something.”

A rumble shook his frame, his deep laugh making a shiver crawl down your spine in delight; this intimate laugh was hardly ever heard after all, only saved for you and his closest kin.

“Don’t pout Love, ‘tis most likely rumor and nothing more; we should be back by Midday, Sundown at the latest,” he purred, nuzzling your neck now.

“That doesn’t mean I like it, Fundinson.”

“Aye, I know,” he teased, smiling at you as he rubbed his nose over yours sweetly, “But when I come back, ye and I can eat those delicious meat pies ye always make for when I come home, and I can spoil ye rotten here in our bed.”

“I don’t _always_ make them,” you argued, rolling your eyes at his affectionate behaviors.

“Aye lass, ye do,” he chuckled, “Because ya know they’re my favorite an’ I know deep down ye hope that they’ll convince me not to leave ye again.”

“Well maybe this time I won’t. Perhaps I should make a large salad instead with all your favorite foods like spinach and tomatoes too, as those pies don’t seem to do any good,” you said, turning your face away from his lips to feign annoyance. 

“I’ll eat whatever ye prepare, my darlin’ lass,” he teased back, you knew he hated greens but he would eat them for you anyway, “But whatever ye make, know that when I leave, I’ll always come back to ya, pies or no.”

You finally caved, knowing your teasing would only last so long as to keep him in your shared bed where he belonged, “Fine; one scratch though and you’re on a lean diet for a month, mark my words you gruff old warthog.”

“Not a scratch,” he smiled, “Ye have my word.”

~~~

At noon you found yourself walking into your favorite bakery in Dale to pick up some pastries and bread for you and your rugged husband. You had spent the better part of the morning busying yourself with shopping to keep your mind from the patrol and also wanted to visit an old friend as well.

“Ah, if it isn’t the bull tamer herself,” Sthilla cackled, pinching your arm playfully with her aged and gnarled hands, “I thought fer sure you’d be down here soon enough, the tavern owner said you’d no longer be workin’ with him!”

“Good morning Sthilla,” you giggled, giving the aged dwarrowdam a gentle hug with your free arm, “Yes, apparently it was too stressful for his aging heart to deal with the rowdy princes and company of the King every other night. They even broke a heavy table last week, did you know? My husband swears one of the local men had been leering at me and saying some very lewd things, so they decided to start one of the _worst_ tavern brawls I’ve ever seen, and nearly destroyed the entire pub.” 

“Ugh, morons,” Sthilla chided, shaking her head, “That husband of yers has a fierce side at the best of times, let alone if he thinks someone’s makin’ eyes at his pretty wife.”

You only laughed, long used to hearing Sthilla’s playful jibes at your husband; in truth, she was the first one to congratulate you on the engagement and always seemed to slip Dwalin a few strawberry tarts whenever he came into the store. She was happy that you had found someone to protect you, and stand by your side in the world at last, as you really had no one else in your life besides her.

“Here ya go hun,” she said, hefting a large basket of fresh breads and sweets onto the countertop as if it were a small bundle of feathers, “An’ I wont here nothin’ about payment ya hear me? I’m grateful that old brute of yers came in last week and patched my roof, so here’s my thanks fer the both of ya.”

“Oh Sthilla, you are too—“ a loud scream in the street cut you off, both of you looking quickly out the window to see what was wrong. You put your basket of groceries down next to the one of baked goods and told the old dwarrowdam to stay indoors and you would find out what happened, and to lock the door after you.

You edged along the street quietly, seeing nobody around in the normally busy marketplace. Another scream echoed down the stone path, another following—that of a man or male dwarrow it seemed—and you reached down and grabbed the daggers you kept in your boots. A small group of people, three young dwarrows and two dwarrowdams, ran into the street from the alley to your right, nearly bowling you over. A sick and blackened beast was running after them, close as could be, when you rammed one of your blades into his skull, the orc filth tumbling to the ground dead. You turned on the five dwarves standing there in shock and cursed as you yanked your blade from the orc’s head.

“Arm yourselves you idiots! With all your racket more are sure to follow,” you snapped, turning around and readying yourself for an attack. “You two lads with the red hair, keep watch on the back, twitchy, up here with me. You two ladies, one on each side, no surprises.”

The males pulled daggers from their boots, one of the redheads and the terrified one on your left handing a blade to the females of the group; you cursed yourself for not working more with axes with your husband, he had assured you that you wouldn’t need them, but you were ironically left wanting them now.

Three more orcs appeared at the end of the street ahead of you, one jumping down to the sides of the males at the back and the female on your right, causing her to scream shrilly, the small blade in her hand clattering to the ground. The orc lunged at her and was pierced in the throat by the red head closest to her, the other three charging you and your timid companion in the process. Before you were even aware of what you were doing, you had spun and plunged a dagger into one of their chests as you ducked another’s sword and shoved a blade in his back, causing him to howl in pain before falling down dead. Your fighting companion wasn’t as lucky, he received a blow to the head before the other female—the one who _hadn’t_ dropped her damn weapon—stuck her own knife in the orc’s eye, blade sinking low into the socket before yanking it out and slicing it’s neck quickly, black blood oozing everywhere. You looked over at the brave girl and laughed with her, both glad you were still standing. Her gasp, and a loud roar was heard before you heard a sickening crunch sound, directly behind you making you a bit nauseous.

You whipped around, finding your husband standing before you. Dwalin stood there, fire in his eyes with his hammer embedded into the orc’s skull, breath heavy and harsh. Soft growls could be heard with every one of his breaths when he looked up at you, needing to see that you were alive and unharmed. Your daggers shook in your hands, still poised halfway in midair at the sudden surprise of the sixth creature of the day. Your husband grunted as he hefted the hammer out of the wretch’s body, gently placing it to the side as he stepped over the carcass towards you, hands held out calmly.

“It’s alright Love, ye’re fine now; just give me the blades,” he soothingly asked, carefully walking towards your now shaking form. You had never before needed to use your blades, or any weapon, in your life. The attack had shaken you badly and you weren’t quite sure you wouldn’t need them again soon. Your husband gently pried the knives from your grip, wiping them on his trousers before sliding them into his belt, and reaching for you. You looked up into his face and noticed a small cut above his left eye, still bleeding slowly, when you snapped.

You yanked yourself out of his hold and started to mercilessly kick the body of the orc that had nearly cut your head off, screaming profanities to it’s corpse.

“You stupid fucking whore-son! Forsaken piece of warg shit,” you yelled, pummeling the dead creature with your feet until a strong arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you away, kicking and screaming as you flailed to get back down and vent your feelings. Dwalin carried you effortlessly away from the collection of dead orcs, the five young dwarrow following somewhat frightfully behind him as he hauled you back to Sthilla’s shop once more. The old dwarrowdam opened the door quickly and ushered everyone inside, eyes wide at your very uncharacteristic outburst and struggles.

“Fundinson, what in _Mahal’s damn underpants_ happened out there?!” She yelled over you.

“I’ve no damn idea, she was fighting the orcs, I killed one who was trying to sneak up behind her, and then she went berserk and started kicking the damned thing’s rotten carcass!” he hollered back, keeping a tight grip on you as he walked over to a table.

“Those God-forsaken bastards hurt you that’s what fucking happened you pig-headed dwarf!” you screamed as he plopped you into a chair, kneeling in front of you as you pointed an accusatory finger at the cut over his brow. “You gave me your damn word Fundinson! I swear you’re not getting a scrap of meat for a month!”

Dwalin, Sthilla, and the five dwarrows all stared at you in shock as you seethed, your screaming and flailing thankfully over, before Dwalin began to chuckle, low in his chest. The chuckle turned into a loud laugh that soon became guffaws as he heard your reasoning for going mad and trying to beat up a dead orc. Your frown deepened and you felt like smacking him over the head before he grabbed your face gently and placed a soft, but steady kiss to your lips, large hands cradling your skull and jaw carefully as if you were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.

You pushed him off and glared at him as he continued to laugh, punching him once in the shoulder for good measure, “I’m serious as death Dwalin! And if you don’t stop laughing it’ll be two months!”

“Lass,” he laughed, “I could care less if I was only to eat greens for the rest of my life, I’m just happy to have ya here, unharmed, before me verra eyes.”

Your glare softened as you pressed your forehead to your husband’s; he _was_ your gruff old warthog after all.

"Fine," you huffed, "I guess you won't miss those strawberry tarts of yours either."

" _Lass_ ," Dwalin whined.

**~FIN~**

**Author's Note:**

> *Sthilla= Ss-th-ee-lah


End file.
